


Open Hands, A Glowing Sun

by luninosity



Series: Balancing Act [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Also Mostly In The Past, Beginnings, But Of A Bad Person, Comfort, Hand Jobs, Healing, Hope, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Sexual Assault, Protective!Erik, Recovery, Sexual Content, Sweetness, hurt!charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there’s an unwanted visitor, some consequences, and some kisses that lead to more; and just maybe both Charles and Erik are going to be all right, together, in the end. (Please do check the warnings--references are made to past plot points that may be triggery!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Hands, A Glowing Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly two full years later, I knew how it ended. Thank you, if you're reading!
> 
> **Warnings: contains not-too-explicit mention of these elements: past non-con attempt, previous off-screen character death (of the Bad Person who attempted the non-con with Charles), recovery after previous further-than-intended self-harm (Charles never really exactly wanted to die; see previous story), Erik and Charles coping with the fallout, lots of healing, tentative first attempts at sex again, lots of love.**
> 
> Title and opening lines from “A Trick With No Sleeve,” as performed/written by Dave Grohl, Josh Homme, and Alain Johannes.
> 
> This trilogy was inspired by [interesting_gin](http://interesting-gin.livejournal.com/)’s chillingly beautiful but as far as I know unfinished [Off-Balance series](http://interesting-gin.livejournal.com/5449.html), and she gave me kind permission to play in her sandbox--thank you, gin!

  
_open hands, a glowing sun  
on my way back home  
a loving glance, a caring touch  
oh, I hope it won't be long  
an open heart, a deep blue moon  
on my way back home  
the magic at the rainbow's end  
oh, I hope it won't be long_   
_hope it won’t be long_   


  
Sanctuary doesn’t last. It never does.  
  
Three weeks to the day later, three weeks after they’ve come home, three weeks of Erik holding him in bed, of cautious kisses and morning sunshine, their world’s invaded.  
  
The police officer stands in the foyer, shifting his weight. Utters, “Sorry but your name came up in our investigations,” and Charles puts a hand to his own throat, involuntarily.  
  
He’d sensed the man coming up the drive; even with his currently erratic abilities, he has enough control to keep up the wards around the house, the grounds, the approach. He knows when an unrecognized mind breaches his walls. This particular mind is entirely human, and isn’t especially evil or menacing; is a bit myopic and very dogged and thinking vaguely about what his wife might want for dinner. Determined, in short, to do his job and then go home.  
  
The problem is, his job involves interviewing suspects. The problem is that he’s not wrong to be here.  
  
Charles shuts his eyes and feels the phantom sensations crawl over his skin again. The spider’s-legs of memory.  
  
“I don’t know anything,” he says.  
  
“Well, y’see, you were there. Asking questions, about our victim. Right before he couldn’t answer any, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“I know what you mean.” He’s very cold, despite the bright stripe of late-morning sunshine falling through the still-open door. That morning, he’d awakened with Erik’s fingers entwined with his. He glances at his hand. Tries to recall that sensation now.  
  
“We’re just trying to get an idea of what happened down there.” The cop feels like tiredness and exasperation _: a waste of time, look at him, he’s too rich and privileged to kill anyone, nah, he’d pay for someone else to hit the mark and we’d never even know, not gonna tell me, wonder if I should pick up fried chicken on the way back home…_  
  
And then Erik walks in, no doubt summoned from Alex’s training by a hint of Charles’s distress. Or, possibly, simply wanting to touch him; Erik’s been wanting that often, lately. Ever since it’s been reestablished that they can.  
  
Their visitor’s attention abruptly spins toward _oh oh this one this one trained killer look at him the way he stands he could’ve—_ and Charles reaches out and snaps those thoughts in half without even thinking twice.  
  
Erik is a killer, yes. Has killed before. But not this time. This time is Charles’s burden.  
  
He’s better, now. He does believe that. He’s home from the hospital and safe, he’s been here for three weeks, he’s been held by Erik. He’s told Raven, very carefully, not in explicit words; enough that she knows what happened, that it wasn’t appendicitis. He’s told her that she can tell the others.  
  
The reaction hasn’t been what he might’ve expected. The children don’t treat him much differently—some, but not much, and he’s guessing that his sister or Erik has said something about that—but they do seem more considerate around him these days. More aware, perhaps. Not touching him, unless he touches them first. No accusation, though, not in anyone’s thoughts, as uneven and fleeting as his hearing can be. Some amazement—that he’s still here, unafraid, and smiling at them—some worry, and some generous fierce protectiveness that’d made him nearly cry once in the middle of a training session, Sean looking over at him with anxious eyes as his voice wobbled mid-sentence. In general, they seem to be on his side.  
  
He’s not sure he has a side. He appreciates the support, but it’s not as if he’s _right._  
  
“I don’t know what happened,” he says. It’s misdirection, but not exactly untrue. “After—anything could’ve happened.” After hands on his skin and weight atop his body and a sweaty palm clamped over his mouth and his own panic, exploding out of him, exploding everywhere, until the room and the bed and the other man and his own body all went away—  
  
Well. Anything _could’ve_ happened. And he _doesn’t_ know, not precisely. He only came back to himself in time to see the results. The stickiness. The red. The lack of other person.  
  
“He deserved to die,” Erik growls, which is not helpful, and crosses the floor to his side, one hand coming to sit on his shoulder, as much a show of solidarity as it is support. “We’ve been over this. We’ve been in your police station, and your hospital, and I would kill him again—”  
  
“Erik!”  
  
The man raises eyebrows that miss nothing, and his thoughts spark from _lazy/bored/follow-up_ to _the case this case solving the case promotion hey finally about time me not that jackass Steve with the stupid last name this time_ —“Again?”  
  
Charles glares at Erik, who looks unapologetic; puts his hand to his head, because it’s an old focusing trick but right now he needs that, needs all the old tricks he can remember. Erik’s gaze sharpens. “Charles—”  
  
He shakes his head, and reaches out and plucks the memory away as neatly and cleanly as he can, tweezers catching a splintery shard; he replaces it with a close-enough version of Erik’s anger, minus that crucial word.  
  
 _I didn’t kill him,_ Erik mutters, _but I would have. I would—_ The thought swirls into a complicated knot of anger and protective outrage and, deeper, a thrumming helpless grief: Erik wasn’t there, and Charles needed him, and there isn’t anything all his skills can do to make this right.  
  
 _You are_ , Charles answers soundlessly, _you are here, and that’s—something_ , and unfreezes their visitor.  
  
And instantly realizes that simply removing the memory hasn’t been enough. The suspicion, the emotion, is all still there.  
  
He’s done this wrong, not done enough, not made the right choice, again. He can’t _trust_ himself.  
  
Tiny sparkles dance behind his eyes, mockingly bright, for a second.  
  
The officer says “I’m sorry but I do have to ask you certain questions, Professor,” and his eyes aren’t kind at all as he speaks the words.  
  
“You do not,” Erik snaps, “you do not need to ask him anything at all, we have already told you—”  
  
“That,” the man returns evenly, “is hardly an American accent, is it, Mr Lehnsherr? But you seem to have a pretty good grasp of English, so I’m assuming you’re familiar with the term _deportation_?”  
  
The nickel-plated letter-opener, over on the side table, abruptly spins around and flies off the edge, stabbing itself point-first into the antique wood floorboards beside the man’s glossy shoe. The keys and coins in Erik’s pocket, the ones that he’s never without, are humming angrily too, and the official policeman’s badge on the man’s belt rattles like a warning.  
  
 _Erik—_  
  
 _He can’t make me leave you, Charles._  
  
He can feel the fury simmering just under the surface of those words, and any attempt to argue would be futile, so he just says _I know_ , and leaves it at that. _But let me try to handle this without anything quite so drastic, first?_  
  
 _Charles, you shouldn’t have to—_  
  
Charles ignores this outburst of enraged concern, and says calmly to the officer, “I’ve already told you everything I recall. I can explain it all again if you’d like, but I believe we covered the…incident rather thoroughly in the initial statement.”  
  
“Well, now, depends on your definition of thoroughly, don’t it, Professor? That was an awful lot of blood you were covered in, and we got only your word he was alive when you left him. And no one saw him again, after you.”  
  
For a brief second that _awful lot of blood_ spills over him again, warm and sticky evidence of bodies coming apart, and he can’t quite breathe, because it’s everywhere, and some of it’s his and some of it isn’t and he can’t tell the two apart as far as painfulness goes.  
  
He hears Erik shout _Charles!!_ and wonders what his face must look like to elicit that level of fear, and then pushes it all down and away into a corner of his mind, flinging up hasty barricades that he knows won’t last but will hold for long enough.  
  
Very clearly, he says again, “I’ve told you everything I know, _and it’s the truth_ ,” and pushes, at the same time, as hard as he thinks might be enough to implant the conviction without harming the man. Though, of course, he is causing harm; he’s changing, very literally, someone’s mind.  
  
But what else is he supposed to do? He still can’t quite breathe correctly and his own thoughts have scattered into horrified little creatures that run and hide when he tries to make them be coherent and so he clings to the fact that he can do only a small amount of harm here, only as much as he has to, to save himself. He’s not killing anyone this time. Not blowing them apart from the inside out.  
  
That’s one thing, at least.  
  
He asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with?” and is amazed that his voice doesn’t shake at all. Inside everything else is.  
  
The man blinks, shakes his head, and suddenly looks a lot friendlier. “No, thanks, I imagine that’s it. Sorry to bother you, Professor, we trust your story, we just got to ask these things. Weirdest case I ever saw.”  
  
Charles nods because he can’t answer, and Erik glares viciously at the man and offers, “I can show you out,” in a manner that is not an offer at all. Charles shuts his eyes and stands very still in the hallway while their footsteps echo away from him, and feels memories crawling out from behind the barricades, persistent little creeping darknesses that snicker at his attempt to keep them from infecting the light.  
  
More harm. More hurt. No other options. So helpless, again.  
  
Erik comes back soundlessly as always and puts a hand on his shoulder as if trying to help and Charles flinches, almost falls over, gasps, “ _No_ ,” and backs away from the shocked dismay on Erik’s face and takes enough steps to reach the staircase and then the hallway and then his bedroom, where he falls down on the carpet because he can’t make his legs work anymore and sits there trembling.  
  
He thinks he might want to vomit, but he doesn’t. He thinks about the meager possibility that Erik’s forgotten to find all the replacement razorblades in the bathroom cupboard, but he doesn’t go look for those either. Instead he just leans against the thick wood panel that’s the familiar foot of his bed, shivering, and not crying, and he doesn’t know why he’s not doing that, as well.  
  
In his head he sits there for an eon, but in fact it’s less than a minute before Erik comes sprinting up the staircase after him, preceded by swift silvery spikes of love and fear and outraged protectiveness, and crashes into the bedroom and lands on folded-up knees there beside him in the shadow of the bed.  
  
Those long-fingered hands reach for him, instinctively, and then check themselves, Erik evidently thinking twice about the wisdom of touching him right now. “Charles…”  
  
Charles shakes his head, because he can’t think of any words, and Erik curses in several different languages, in their heads and out loud, and doesn’t move away from his side. _Charles please say something please be all right please come back to me—_  
  
Come back? Has he gone somewhere? Perhaps, he decides. But not that far away, not if he can still feel Erik exhaling terror with every breath, so he swallows and collects words at random, which happen to be, “You shouldn’t throw letter-openers at visitors, you know.”  
  
“Charles,” Erik says again, face absolutely white, and Charles realizes suddenly that Erik’s more scared than he is, with regard to what he might do, might have tried to do in the single minute he’s been alone with all the ghosts.  
  
So he pushes up bulky sweater sleeves, one-handed and awkward, displaying only fading scars on one wrist and the last pristine bandages on the other, snow-white except for bits of brown fuzz from the sweater, and holds out both hands for Erik to take, if he wants them.  
  
Erik touches him gently, then, fingers skimming across his palms, the soft skin along the inside of his forearms, still whole, today. Fading lines and freckles. The little bits of clinging fuzz, which Erik picks from the bandages, cautiously. They drift to the carpet, where they become indistinguishably one with the luxurious weave.  
  
The world calms itself slowly around him, in his head. He’s still here. He can feel Erik touching him, and the reassurance that echoes between both of them with that touch. He’s here and he’s all right and he never did get up to find the razorblades and that’s all right too; he doesn’t need to.  
  
He could if he wanted to. But not this time. Not this day.  
  
For one day at a time, not this day.  
  
 _Erik_ , he says, and Erik gazes at him with wounded eyes, still running warm fingers carefully across offered skin. _I’m sorry about panicking, downstairs. I only—it felt like too much, all at once. And I’m sorry I frightened you._  
  
 _I told you once that you would never need to apologize to me. I still mean that. I love you, Charles. Always._  
  
 _I know you do. I love you, as well._ And somehow that’s better.  
  
They sit there surrounded by silence for a while, on the companionable carpet. The shades, over the window beside the bed, are open; a neatly-outlined square of morning sunshine travels a few centimeters across the floor, in the space between words.  
  
The bed offers generous sturdiness where they’re both leaning against it. It doesn’t mind that they’ve left it half-made, covers pulled up but not properly tucked in, some sort of compromise between Charles’s morning laziness and Erik’s compulsive desire for tidiness, for precision, for clearly defined order in the world, black and white in straight lines like a chessboard.  
  
The world isn’t that tidy. People are messy and complex and the best he can ever hope for, for himself, for others, is the smallest amount of harm possible. And every day is a balancing act.  
  
But Erik’s sleeping next to him in their bed again. Feels solid and present in the night, when Charles touches him. Says _I love you_ unprompted, and leaves Charles breathless with astonishment every single time: Erik loves him. Even now, Erik loves him.  
  
And their bed doesn’t mind being a compromise.  
  
The sunlight wanders closer to his feet, across the carpet. Taps shyly at his toes.  
  
It’s not really a decision, when he thinks about it. More like acceptance. Like the recognition that maybe he can have again what he’s been afraid of wanting for so long.  
  
He whispers, _Erik_ , and then curls his fingers around Erik’s where they’re tracing patterns on his skin, bringing them to rest, tangled up with his. _Would you—can you kiss me?_  
  
 _You—you want me to do this? To—?_  
  
Charles nods, and Erik takes a deep breath, as if trying to stabilize the universe with a single inhalation, and then leans forward and brings their lips together, lightly, barely making contact. Charles almost laughs at the excessive caution, but the arctic-water hue of Erik’s eyes gives away how worried he is, the fear hiding like icebergs under surfaces that only remain undisturbed because of that iron control.  
  
So instead he says _More_ , and watches the eyes change, ice thawing as the word sinks in. _Are you sure?_  
  
 _Yes._  
  
When Erik kisses him the second time, it’s a bit less tentative, a bit more certain, the echo of that yes hanging in the air. Charles keeps his eyes open, because he wants to see Erik there with him, because to close them would be to invite the fear, because he knows that Erik needs to see the yes there too.  
  
It’s frightening—letting Erik initiate the kiss, not being entirely in control—but he could pull back at any second, he knows that, and he wants to find out whether he can do this. Whether he can have this, still.  
  
And it _is_ frightening, and also lovely, and he knows that Erik will never hurt him and he doesn’t lean away. Because he could lean away, if he wanted to, if he chose to, and so he doesn’t.  
  
 _Erik?_ he asks, and Erik freezes with the sensation of those lips lingering over his. _Are you—did I—_  
  
 _More. Please._  
  
“Charles—” Erik hesitates, hands intertwined lightly with his. Erik has strong hands, long fingers that are capable of bending metal, of twisting flesh, of leaving scars. All of these are things he’s done in the past. Charles knows this. He also knows that those powerful hands are shaking, just a bit, where they brush against his own broken skin.  
  
 _Charles, are you sure?_  
  
“No.” _I’m not sure of anything. And I’m fucking terrified. But I don’t want to be. So I’d like to try. It might not be all right—and I’m sorry in advance, for that—but I’d like to try to do this. For us._  
  
After a speechless second, Erik answers, _I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say fuck, Charles_ , and Charles replies, honestly startled, _Really? I’m fairly familiar with the word, you’ve somehow never walked in on me writing a paper?_ and they both nearly laugh at that terrible normality. At all the words that go unspoken, over and beneath the ones that are.  
  
Out loud, Erik says, “I love you,” and Charles finds an actual smile for him despite all the shakiness and says “I love you” right back.  
  
“So, then…” _What do you want me to do? The bed is—or we could stay here. On the floor. And I could kiss you again?_  
  
“The latter option, I think…” _For now, anyway_. The carpet is fluffily welcoming and the bed looms large and imposing above them, because even though it’s gotten friendlier now that Erik’s sharing it with him, somehow the thought of sex _in_ the bed feels more real, more intimidating, than it should. Less of a choice, about where and when.  
  
Which really doesn’t make much sense, but Erik nods as if he understands, or as if he doesn’t have to understand but will listen anyway, will try to do or be whatever Charles needs regardless of sense.  
  
 _I love you so fucking much_ , Charles thinks at him, voicelessly, a sudden pulse of warmth like elation spiraling out of the embers of a fire. And Erik puts both arms around him, and sends that thought right back, laughing helplessly at his phrasing, at the collision of all the relief and amazement and astounded joy. And the fire leaps up more brightly, rekindled.  
  
 _Were you planning to kiss me again, then?_  
  
 _Still impatient, Charles?_  
  
 _For you? Always._ And Erik murmurs something else, something that isn’t in English but that translates in their heads as _thankfulness/love/astonishment/desire_ , and then brings their mouths together.  
  
It’s still a gentle kiss, because Erik is trying so desperately hard not to make any demands, but he does move a bit more assertively this time, picking up the idea that Charles wants him to, and his tongue traces the contours of Charles’s lips like he’s attempting to learn them all over again, every centimeter, every new taste.  
  
Charles lets himself be explored. The rediscovery is beautiful, and painful. And he’s craving more.  
  
He can hear the distant thunder of his own heartbeat, speeding up against the invasion of his mouth, the hands on his skin, but it’s Erik and he can also hear the matching rapid-fire of Erik’s pulse and so he parts his lips a little more in invitation and feels the white-hot flash of incredulous happiness at the gesture.  
  
 _Charles, you don’t have to—_  
  
 _I know I don’t have to. I want to. I want you. Is that all right?_  
  
 _Yes, Charles, YES—!_  
  
So he mentally takes a deep breath, and then slides his hands up to the edge of Erik’s black turtleneck of the day. Erik has been wearing the unseasonable turtlenecks quite a lot, lately. In fact…  
  
 _You’ve been trying to be as clothed as possible, haven’t you? So that I don’t have to think about us being naked?_  
  
At which a feeling of distinct guilty embarrassment pops out of the cloud of _love/want/worry_ in Erik’s thoughts, and Charles doesn’t laugh, simply says _Thank you_ and tips his head back to let Erik trail small kisses down the line of his throat. And then, carefully, slips his hands under fabric, and touches another person’s bare skin.  
  
They both breathe in, in unison, at the sensation.  
  
Erik’s lips pause, breath whispering along his skin.  
  
“Yes,” Charles says, out loud, even though neither of them’s asked the question. And Erik puts an arm around him, and eases them both down to the carpet, horizontal, with kisses, with care.  
  
One eloquent hand touches his arm, just below the scars where skin’s fragile and new. Erik’s thoughts are multifaceted: regret and awe and love and admiration of strength. Erik’s thinking that Charles is the bravest person he knows.  
  
I’m not, Charles tries to say, but Erik’s kissing him again and that’s rather distracting, and another hand’s found its way to the hem of his sweater, underneath wool, to the top of his jeans. It settles there to wait, radiating heat.  
  
The carpet’s plush and slightly scratchy on his elbow, when he pushes himself partway up. The sunlight’s kind on his cheek. It splashes gold into Erik’s hair. Picks out all the auburn highlights.  
  
Erik’s eyebrows tug together. “Are you—are we—we can stop, Charles, it’s all right.”  
  
“No…” He leans over and kisses the corner of Erik’s mouth, that line where lips meet, fine and straight. Erik’s skin is warm there, too. _I love you. You can touch me._  
  
 _Can I…_ Erik drifts the hand upward, slowly. Brushes his waist. When Charles doesn’t stop him, touches exposed skin a bit more firmly. _So beautiful, Charles. My god—_ and Charles, amused, realizes that that last thought hasn’t been in English.  
  
 _I love you,_ he says again.  
  
Erik runs the hand over his back as if memorizing every muscle, every vertebra, every freckle. Touches lips to his ear; Charles shivers, and feels the sensation throughout his body. The sunshine catches all the tiny dust-specks in the air, and gilds them all with light.  
  
“I love you,” Erik murmurs, aloud; the rumble of it echoes pleasantly in his chest, where they’re pressed together. The sheer physicality of that voice goes straight to his cock, which swells with a dizzying rush. He doesn’t even have time to think about it, to hesitate, to pull away.  
  
Erik does it for him, however, doubtless feeling the abrupt arousal against his thigh. _Charles, are you—_  
  
 _I want you,_ Charles says, because he knows that it’s true. He does. “Erik?”  
  
“Hmm?” Kissing him lightly, his cheekbone, his temple, the spot beside one closed eye. _What do you need?_  
  
 _You, I think._ He can feel himself smiling. He can feel the scrape of the bandage when he puts his arms around Erik’s back, too, but he can also feel that it doesn’t hurt. The last of the stitches will come out soon enough, he thinks, to himself.  
  
Erik’s hands tug at his shoulders, not hard, but inviting: Charles on top, Erik’s thinking, himself lying back in the sunbeam and letting blue eyes and hesitant hands take the lead. Charles flinches—he can’t, not yet—and sends back an image of his own, tinged with apology and suggestion. Erik gets it instantly and pulls him closer, the two of them on their sides, face to face, a single breath-space between their lips. _Better?_  
  
 _Yes_. No need for explanations, not here.  
  
He shifts a hip, experimentally; feels Erik tense and actively hold back from thrusting against him. Smiles, in their heads and visibly. _You can_.  
  
 _Charles, I—_ Erik stops. Runs his hand over Charles’s waist again. Tiptoes it between them. Charles, who’d not thought there’d be room, finds himself impressed all over at Erik’s resourcefulness.  
  
 _Is this all right? May I touch you?_  
  
 _Yes._ He tangles fingers in Erik’s hair. Likes the rough softness of it on his skin. Very real. _Yes, please._  
  
Erik whispers something else not in English and barely coherent, and presses that broad palm over the line of his cock, where he’s already hard beneath the denim, arousal they can both sense. Curls long fingers awkwardly around him through layers of fabric; the grip makes him shiver, though not from fear.  
  
Erik must be picking that up as well, because the hand begins to rub at him, slow but deliberate, finding that perfect rhythm, the motion that makes him gasp and arch upward desperately. _Erik—_  
  
There’s a grin, rather self-satisfied, though tinged around with some other emotion, heartpiercing joy and love like a halo. Erik likes doing this, he thinks, as far as he can think, mind grown hazy with the relentless strokes. Erik likes seeing him this way, and Erik can’t quite believe it, that they’ve gotten to have this way again.  
  
 _I’m all right, love_ , he offers, not exactly in words, and loops a hand around the back of Erik’s neck, where the hairs are shorter and wispier and fine to the touch. Erik breathes in, a ragged inhale, and then hooks his leg over Charles’s waist in a demonstration of astonishing flexibility, a move that brings the whole length of his impressive erection flush against Charles’s hip. Charles moans; Erik grins again and moves the hand faster, and he can hear someone panting now, shuddering tiny groans, and he knows it’s himself and he knows he ought to be frightened or panicked or having flashbacks, he’s not done this since, _since_ , but this is Erik and Erik’s hand feels so good and Erik wants him and Charles in this moment just wants Erik—  
  
 _Yes_ , Erik thinks back to him, full of wonder and resolve. _Yes, you can, we can, go on, Charles, I love you._  
  
It’s so close, he can feel it, shimmering at the base of his spine, in the pressure of Erik’s hand on his cock; his whole body tingles with it, feeling alight. But Erik’s not there, not quite, Erik’s arousal is less sharp and more lazy, need in his cock an unhurried ache; Erik’s focus is on Charles, intent and eager.  
  
 _Erik_ , he protests, distantly; Erik laughs, sends _no not me this is good I am good like this just like this about you Charles and you finding pleasure and let me give you this pleasure_ , and Charles gasps at the determination in that thought, and also because Erik’s done something remarkable with the zip of his pants, some nonphysical vibration or shiver or tightness that sends starbursts of bliss all along his cock and up his spine and down to his toes. _Erik, I—_  
  
 _Please,_ Erik whispers. _I want to, I want to see you, to feel you, when you do,_ and kisses him, not hard but intense, deep and sweet and full of conviction, and their tongues meet. The touch—of Erik’s mouth, mind, heart—tips him over the edge, the burning-sugar eruption in his veins, all-consuming and delicious; he has just enough presence of mind to fling sensation outward in return, release pouring like ecstatic gold directly into Erik’s thoughts and that center of molten pleasure.  
  
Erik gasps his name and a startled curse in German, and follows him, climax abrupt and quivering and untouched except for the pulse of his cock into Charles’s hip.  
  
They hold each other, for a while.  
  
Some time later, Charles opens his eyes to find Erik gazing at him. Those lake-mist eyes’re complicatedly tender: not soft, because Erik will never be soft, but warm and open and unguarded in a way he’s rarely seen them.  
  
He wants to inquire, but he can’t collapse the moment so soon. And, being looked at that way, he feels inexplicably shy.  
  
“Charles,” Erik says, and touches a hand, fingertips light and soothing, to his cheek. “You feel…are you crying?”  
  
“Am I?” He lifts his own hand. Studies his fingers, after. “No…I only…”  
  
“Your eyes look…wet.”  
  
“I’m happy,” Charles says, and closes his eyes again, and puts his head on Erik’s shoulder. _I’m—I don’t know. I feel…_  
  
“More secure?” Erik kisses his forehead. _Like this. You in my head. You do seem…more balanced, at least from here. If that makes sense_.  
  
“I think…yes.” True. There’s something different now. A weight lifted. The sense that, if he tries, he can do anything: his abilities might’ve been cracked and twisted by fear and pain, but they can be untwisted too, with care and time. He’s just been in Erik’s head, without causing harm.  
  
They’re still here. He’s still here. He kisses Erik again, telepathically. _Yes._  
  
 _Good_. “And…the rest of it…there’s something I should…not yet. Would you like to get up? From the floor?”  
  
“The rest of it was also good.” He props himself on an elbow. Looks into those eyes. “Truly. Good.” _What something?_  
  
“Oh…then…good.” Erik sits up, and then pulls Charles into his lap; broadcasts intent before he does it, and Charles goes willingly. There’s a wet spot on Erik’s slacks and his own jeans’re drying sticky, but the clothing doesn’t mind, and he doesn’t either. “I was thinking. About us.”  
  
“What about us?”  
  
“Exactly that,” Erik says. “Us.” _I’m not—Charles, I love you. I’m never leaving you. You, and this—what we just did—_  
  
“I hope you enjoyed what we just did.” _Thank you, and I love you; you know that._  
  
“I did enjoy it; I hope that you did, as well…” Erik touches his cheek again, as if for reassurance, for one or both of them. _Yes, I know. I’m not going after Schmidt. Shaw. Not now._  
  
Charles sits bolt upright in shock, manages to smack his bandaged arm against Erik’s shoulder, and yelps in pain.  
  
“Charles—!”  
  
“I’m fine, I’m fine, that was just clumsy—” _Erik, what—you can’t—I’d never ask you for—why would you—_  
  
 _I know you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, Charles, breathe, please, tell me if this hurts. If anything—please tell me._ Erik’s hands are firm and competent, taking his arm, testing bandages, that extraordinary fine-tuned ability brushing delicately along the blood beneath the stitches, checking for damage. “I don’t mean never—I want him dead, Charles. And I want to be there. But I can’t be there and here. And I—if I have to choose, I would save you. I know—”  
  
 _I don’t need saving—_  
  
 _No, listen, please_. “I know you don’t. You saved yourself, when I wasn’t there. You protected us today. And then you told me that I could kiss you. And I want to—I want to be here. For you to kiss. If you want to. I asked myself what I’d want more. A world without Shaw in it, or a world with you beside me. I want both. But I can’t—if I go after him now you’ll come with me—”  
  
“Thank you for not assuming I’d stay behind.”  
  
“You wouldn’t.” _And I won’t ask that of you. Not staying behind, not standing with me when I kill a man. Because I would. And you’d be there._  
  
Charles looks away. Watches the sunlight travel over the carpet. Feels the dull throb in his arm. _Yes_ , he says. _I would._  
  
 _So, then…do you understand? Why I want this?_  
  
The sunshine dims. A cloud, passing through. But it does pass. And the room fills with light again.  
  
 _We’ll find him eventually_ , Charles says, not answering directly. _I can—I think I can. Now. With Cerebro, perhaps. With the CIA’s assistance._  
  
 _Eventually, yes._ Erik doesn’t trust the CIA, but does trust Charles. And means every single word. Erik loves him this much: enough to choose life over death, when death’s the only choice Erik’s ever previously envisioned.  
  
Those eloquent fingers’ve remained curled around his forearm, even though they’ve been satisfied as to the wholeness of skin and stitches. Holding on.  
  
Charles looks at those hands, on his skin. Feels the not-very-hidden flare of hope and worry and desire, as pale eyes track his.  
  
He thinks about love. About second chances, and resurrections, and a waiting shower and a bed that he can just possibly fall naked into with Erik, and sunlight caught in long eyelashes. _Some men deserve to die. You said that to me once. And I do understand. You also told me that I deserve to live._  
  
 _You do, Charles, you DO—!_  
  
 _So do you._ They will find Shaw, perhaps more slowly, perhaps less viciously; Erik won’t be completely free until they do, but they’ll do the searching together, and it doesn’t have to define them. They can want more; they can _have_ more. That’s just been rather inarguably demonstrated. By Erik’s choice; by his own.  
  
Along the way, they’ll find others, new recruits, new people like themselves. They’ll reach out a hand in the dark and find someone else’s and say: we have scars and stitches and wounds and we’re still here and we’re not alone.  
  
Maybe they can even start a school. He’d once vaguely pictured himself as a professor, freshly-inked doctorate in hand, teaching position at the ready. Maybe they can have students. A safe haven for those students who need one. A life.  
  
Reasons why.  
  
He reaches over and puts his other hand atop Erik’s, on his arm, and their fingers fit together.  
  
“Yes,” Erik says, “that, Charles, that’s the reason.” 


End file.
